Wholeness

 

It was not absence,

but a quiet hum in the marrow—

a note half-played,

waiting for its echo.

Time folded,

like parchment worn thin,

and still,

something unnamed kept calling.

And then—

as though the air itself remembered—

the missing shape

slipped back into the hollow of being.

Not sudden,

not loud,

but inevitable,

like rivers finding the sea.

Now the silence is round,

the pulse steady,

the unfinished song

at last resolved.

Completion does not shout—

it exhales,

it rests,

it simply is 

it's us...